


I Dreamt of Fire

by pinesbrosfalls (fangirl0430)



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Memories, Sea Grunkles, Short Bursts of Panic (short-lived), Stanuary 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-13 15:19:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17490392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirl0430/pseuds/pinesbrosfalls
Summary: Stan wakes up from a dream that... may be a bit more than just a dream.For Week 3 (Dreams) of Stanuary 2019





	I Dreamt of Fire

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Français available: [J'ai rêvé de feu](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18209315) by [DaraDjinn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaraDjinn/pseuds/DaraDjinn)



The night is cloudless, the stars bright pinpricks of light shining through the dark, endless sky, the moon illuminating the sea like a beacon and bouncing off the soft waves lapping against the hull of the boat. The Stan O’ War stands alone in the vast ocean, anchored for the night and rocking gently with the waves, the glow of a single lamplight through the portside window the only indication that her inhabitants are not both asleep.

It’s a peaceful night, quiet, undisturbed save for the scratch of Ford’s pen on paper and his brother’s soft snores from across the cabin. The air is warm and comfortable, a soft blanket staving off the worst of tonight’s nightmares and letting Ford find some solace in the aimless doodles he scratches out in his journal’s margins and the rhythmic cadence of Stan’s heavy breathing. It’s the small things that stop him from spiraling, he has realized as of late. The small things, like a heavy hand grasping his shoulder or the familiarity of his pen in hand or his brother’s voice drifting though the fog in his head. They keep him grounded. Even when the dreams get bad and the echoes of his past life haunt his memories and flash across his closed eyelids with such clarity that he can’t stand to lie there and risk living through them again. He finds safety in the things he used to deign to be inconsequential, in the things that his younger self would never dare to find some semblance of peace in.

Now, he lets himself relax into it, lets the soft sway of the boat pull the tension out of his muscles and the rumbles of his brother’s snores chase off the demons lurking inside his head. There’s a comfort in the fact that, even if his bed remains empty and cold for the remainder of the night, at least he’s finally found an accord with the throes of his insomnia.

He finds himself on yesterday’s journal entry, the one detailing the floating globes of water they had stumbled into late in the afternoon. The suspended balls of sea water, some barely the size of a drop, others the size of his head, had been lazily drifting above the surface of the water, merging and cleaving from on another for over an hour before the anomaly ended. It had been sudden, the bubbles all seeming to pause for a moment before gravity grabbed back onto them and dragged them back down, some balls splashing onto the deck of the boat, one dropping right on top of Stan’s head and soaking him. Ford’s raucous laughter had been short-lived, interrupted when Stan, with a devious glint in his eye, had lunged at him and sent them both tumbling to the ground, the last dregs of the afternoon lost to playful wrestling that left them both sore and soaked from rolling around on the deck.

He smiles, idly sketching to the left of the entry a picture of a very unamused Stan completely drenched from the head down. The man will probably have a fit the moment he sees the page, but it’s beyond worth it to have that expression permanently recorded somewhere for Ford’s own amusement. Anyways, he could always use the bruises that he’s covered in (well, they’re _both_ covered in, but that’s beside the point) as leverage to keep the drawing.

He might not be a professional con-man like Stan, but his extortion tactics must have improved drastically if Stan’s defeated grumbles are anything to go by now-a-days.

Caught up in his musings, it takes Ford a moment to realize that the air is suddenly still, the other side of the cabin completely silent for once that night.

The instant he realizes Stan’s snores have ceased, he finds himself bristling, the tension flooding back into his system almost automatically. He can’t recall ever hearing Stan _not_ snoring for more than a moment or two during the night, and his brother has always been loud and exaggerated when waking up, sure to make his presence known within the moment sleep deserts him, usually with a loud yawn or a grumble or a bed-creaking stretch that immediately manages to snag Ford’s attention. There was none of that just now. Only a silence that put Ford on edge and threw any reminiscent comfort out the window and into the depths of the sea, the shift in the air sending a chill up his back.

Pure instinct alone drives him to turn and look at his brother, to double-check that the sudden quiet has nothing to do with the paranoia already clawing its way back to the surface, a familiar, taunting laugh reverberating in his head and growing in volume with each passing second.

The anxiety, he quickly realizes, is completely unfounded. The moment his eyes lock on his brother’s prone form and on the deep, steady rise and fall of his chest, he breathes out a sigh of relief, the stiffness draining from his shoulders along with it.

_Of course everything’s alright. Why wouldn’t it be?_

It’s been almost a year since that fateful summer when the world almost ended. A whole year since he came back home and found his family again. A whole year since Stan sacrificed himself to save the world, to beat Bill. A whole year, and his brother still bears the scars from that day, certain small gaps in his memory that just never came back, more than likely will never come back at this rate.  A whole year that Bill’s been dead and gone, nothing left of him save for the empty statue half-buried in the woods. A whole year, and he still…

He wonders if that deeply-entrenched fear and paranoia will ever leave him.

He lingers on Stan for a moment, letting himself smile at the completely haphazard position the man is lying in, one arm hanging off the side of the bed with his fingers inches from brushing the floor, sheets shoved almost halfway down his torso, legs bent in awkward positions, mouth completely slack and wide open, a small trail of drool making its way from the corner of his mouth. Ford lets out a breath of a laugh, turning back to his journal with a light shake of his head to dispel the lingering discomfort and continue sketching.

It's scarcely a few minutes later that a sharp intake of breath catches his attention, and he glances back in Stan’s direction again to see the man’s eyes are wide open, his whole body as taut as a bowstring, his hands fisted in the bedsheets. Ford’s first knee-jerk reaction is to jump to red-alert, alarm bells ringing through his head that something is wrong, that something happened, that he needs to dart to Stan’s side and figure out what’s going on, his brother’s name a frantic question on the tip of his tongue—

But then reason slips in a moment later, and he realizes it was a dream and nothing more that woke Stan in such a panic. He forces himself to stay still in his desk chair, to swallow back the rushed words of fear and give Stan a moment to come back to himself, knowing that he’s better off letting Stan piece everything together for a moment before doing something that could startle him even more.

He made that mistake the first couple times this happened, but Ford’s nothing if not a quick learner.

There are a few moments of tense silence, Stan’s eyes locked on the bunk above him and his entire body rigid, before he blinks once, twice, his eyebrows drawing together in confusion for a short moment. Then, almost like a switch finally flicking on, he relaxes, every ounce of stress leaving his body in one fell swoop as he sags back into the mattress, his grip flattening out on the sheets, his eyelids closing for a brief moment as he breathes out a deep sigh of relief. The unease in the room instantly evaporates with it, Ford finally letting out the breath he had apparently been holding in.

“You okay?” Ford asks, the question almost automatic at this point. He watches as a wry smile pulls at Stan’s lips.

“Would you believe me if I said yes?” he says, voice still rough with sleep. He finally opens his eyes, still just looking up at the bed above him, seeming to take in its every detail, every frayed thread or indent, all while seeing none of it.

“Nightmare, then?” Ford asks. Stan’s smile twitches, somehow caught off-guard, a momentary silent debate seeming to flicker across his face before he drops the expression entirely, leaving something… sad in its wake. Ford is taken aback by the unusual shift.

“Don’t think so,” Stan says. And that just leaves Ford reeling. Because if it wasn’t a nightmare that woke his brother up so suddenly and in such a panic, then the only other explanation would be that he… remembered something. And by the looks of it, maybe it was one of the memories that was better left buried.

“You,” Ford says, pausing as if deciding whether to push the topic before continuing on, “want to talk about it?” Stan laughs dryly, shoulders shuddering with the sound.

“Isn’t _that_ the question of the night,” he mutters, reaching up with one hand to rub at his eyes, fingers automatically moving in such a way as to prevent accidentally touching glasses that he seemed to momentarily forget he wasn’t wearing. Everything about him just looks exhausted, and Ford realizes his brother probably isn’t looking for a conversation right now, at four (five?) in the morning.

“Actually, you probably just want to sleep,” he backtracks, starting to turn back to his desk. “We can just talk in the morning if you want—”

“No no no I’m not—” Stan grunts in annoyance, losing the sentence. “We decided it helps when I talk it out, right? Cements the memory or something?”

“Yes,” Ford says. “You did say it helps later on.”

“Right,” he agrees, still staring at the mattress over his head. “So I should talk about it, right?”

“Only if you want to,” Ford says, turning fully in his chair so that he’s facing his brother, leaning his head into the hand that’s propped up on the chair back. “I’m all ears.” Stan snorts at that, a small smile crossing his face and flitting away seconds later, the reason a complete mystery to Ford. And once the moment’s gone, Stan seems to revert back to the pensive state he was in moments after he woke up, still piecing bits together and trying to figure out what exactly it was that he remembered, why it seemed to matter. Ford watches patiently, giving him the time he needs to figure out where to start.

“I think…” he says after a minute, the words dying off as he seems to reconsider them, to find something inherently wrong with them.

Ford waits.

“This is gonna sound really weird,” Stan says, squinting up at the mattress over him. Ford wants to remind him that he’s probably see weirder, but he keeps the thought to himself, not wanting to interrupt Stan’s train of thought.

Stan turns his head, finally meeting Ford’s eyes for the first time that night, though his gaze still seems a million miles away.

“I… I dreamt of fire…”

* * *

The moment the bright blue flames consume the door, he feels something begin to burn in the back of his head. It’s something like those migraines he always got when he stayed up too late trying to figure out Ford’s portal or the advanced science behind it. Only this doesn’t seem to hurt. No, this is more of a pressure, a heat in the back of his mind that’s just a touch too warm to be good, a bit too uncomfortable to be right. He thinks it’s like someone took a hot iron and shoved it into his skull, but he still can’t understand why there’s no pain, no matter how much he swears there should be.

**_I don’t know what this is going to be like for you in there._ **

**_… never been used to such an extreme degree…_ **

_Will it hurt?_

**_I don’t know._ **

Something tells him this is supposed to hurt. He’s losing everything, so it only makes sense that it should be the worst pain imaginable, a deep part of him being scraped from existence, leaving behind nothing but a shell to rot in his place. The flames that quickly encircle the small room should burn, grab at his skin and leave nothing but dust and ruin in their wake, a fitting end to suffer one last time to protect the ones he loves.

But even when the flames have completely surrounded the room, licking at the walls and eating at the wallpaper, there’s no heat. Hell, somehow, he swears the raging blue flames almost feel… cold.

The warmth in his head presses forward, and he feels it slowly incinerating something in him, leaving something numb and confusing behind.

Why doesn’t it hurt?

**_I’m sorry._ **

_Don’t be. This is my choice._

**_It shouldn’t have to be._ **

It’s the little things that start to fade first.

~~The name of his favorite magazine. His shoe size. The order of the Shack exhibit tour. The last four digits of the kids’ parents’ phone number.~~

Little things that should be there, but when he tries to grab hold of them, they slip through his fingers like dust.

Like ash.

Crumbling in the wake of that warmth burning through his head.

“YOU IDIOT! DON’T YOU REALIZE YOU’RE DESTROYING YOUR OWN MIND TOO?”

There’s something harsher in that phrasing, something that makes him flinch.

**_It will erase you. Everything that you are. Everything you know. Do you understand that?_ **

_It’s not like we have another choice here._

It’s the difference between scratching something out with a pen or just tossing the whole page into the shredder.

Erase. Destroy.

He knows Bill’s just trying to get to him.

Part of him wonders, though, if Ford chose the nicer description on purpose.

One final kindness.

_Will there be a way to bring me back?_

**_I don’t know._ **

~~The names of the goons from New Mexico. Dipper and Mabel’s birthday. The password to get into the basement.~~

“It’s not like I was using this space for much, anyway.”

At the edges of the room, the wallpaper curls upwards and scorches, blue flames climbing higher, dancing at every corner of his vision.

He knows this is all in his head, his mind rationalizing and trying to understand what’s happening, taking the fire inside his head and letting him watch it himself. Watch it creep away from the edges of the room towards where he stands, not a threat, but a promise for the end, one he signed up for the moment he and Ford switched clothes, the moment he held his hand out and—

~~His mother’s name. His father’s face.~~

There’s a bitterness that the flames aren’t red, don’t burn like they should.

~~An old car. A fez stitched with gold.~~

A fear that they _should_. Or that this is somehow _worse_.

~~A girl with fiery hair that worked the cash drawer. A son he never had that loved more than he deserved.~~

It should _hurt_.

Isn’t it what he deserves?

Isn’t it?

**_~~Stan, I love you.~~ _ **

_~~I love you too, Poindexter.~~ _

He’s standing over the demon, forgotten words coming out in a rush, fire burning through his veins and through his head, the thing screaming and contorting as the flames close in around them, ice running down his back.

_There’s so much blue._

~~A broken sailboat on a beach.~~

Everything is blurred, distorted, tilted just enough to seem wrong. But then there’s one last scream.

~~Stanley.~~

A burst of fragmented light.

And then blue.

So much blue it’s all he can see.

~~Stanford.~~

~~Don’t leave me hanging?~~

And he’s suddenly, painfully…

Alone.

It hurts, in every way he thinks it can.

He doesn’t remember... He’s so  _alone_  and he doesn’t know...

And some part of him believes he deserves it. Believes this was always meant to happen.

But then…

Then something catches his eye through the flames.

A picture.

~~The kids.~~

He makes his way over to it, cold biting at his legs, the last bit of warmth sizzling out in his head. He picks it up before everything else fades back into the flames, and even if he can’t seem to draw out their names, those kids…

Something he thinks is love swells deep in his chest.

And he gets the vaguest feeling that…

_Guess I was good for something after all._

Even as the cold flames take that from him too, and he closes his eyes for what he thinks is the last ~~or first~~ time, those kids leave him with something... warm.

And, he thinks that maybe, just maybe…

That’s enough.

* * *

 

Stan falls silent, the quiet hush that settles over them in the following moments letting Ford know that it’s the end of the memory. And maybe that makes sense, he can’t help but think.

The metal railing is cold under Ford’s arms where he leans, a soft breeze brushing across the deck, the boat still gently rocking underfoot from the steady slosh of water against her side. They’d made their way outside at some point, Ford’s not entirely sure when. Stan said something about feeling claustrophobic somewhere in the middle and needing some air, and Ford wasn’t one to question it.

The air had begun to feel heavy inside the cabin, anyways.

Besides, Stan was always more at ease when there was that familiar, briney tang in the air than he was without it.

Ford almost has to wonder when it became so comforting for him, too.

The silence stretches on, and Ford chances a peek to his side. Beneath the light of the setting moon and dimming stars, Stan is no more than a foot away, but he’s never felt so far before. His eyes, trained down on the waves smacking against the hull, are distant, lost somewhere inside his mind.

Ford wants to say something.

To tell him that he’s sorry he had to go through that. That he had no idea it would be like that. That he never would have imagined that Stan would be _aware_ through the entire ordeal, let alone—

…

There’s a bite of cold to the North Atlantic air tonight, nipping at his arms through his jacket. It’s enough to send a shiver right up his spine.

~~He never thought Stan would have to _remember_ it.~~

There are so many things he wants to say.

He can’t bear to say any of them.

“Do you really think that’s what happened that day?” Stan asks softly, eyes still cast down to the waves. “Do you really think that was a memory and not just…”

_A nightmare?_

~~No one should have to know how it feels to forget.~~

Ford sighs, long and deep, looking out over the water as the lightening sky flashes against the waves. “I don’t know.” And then, when Stan doesn’t say anything else, “What do you think?”

Stan snorts, Ford blinking in surprise at the reaction, even if it’s not entirely unfounded. Stan _would_ be the only one to know for sure. He was the only one there ~~discounting Bill, who’s long dead now, good riddance~~. Ford looks over at him again, at his brother’s wry smile, his eyes shifting up to meet the horizon as he straightens his back.

“I think, no matter what, it’s over now. Just gotta push on, live with the past and all its problems, know that tomorrow’s a new day, and in the end, it’s all just memories now, right?” he says. “No use dwelling on it.”

“Just because it’s in the past doesn’t mean the memories go away,” Ford says. Stan blinks hard, snapping his head to the side to give Ford an incredulous look. “Doesn’t make them any easier to live with.”

“Ya know, you kinda suck at this whole ‘comfort’ thing,” Stan says.

“It’s 6am, I haven’t slept since yesterday, and haven’t had coffee in hours. What do you expect?” Ford deadpans, and Stan snorts in response. “Plus, it would be hypocritical of me to pretend like we can just leave the past behind. I mean, I still keep my gun under my pillow because I can’t fall asleep otherwise.” Stan’s lips twitch down into a momentary grimace, Ford more than aware that he hates that he sleeps like that. _It’s just a disaster waiting to happen._ But thirty years of habit is hard to break, no matter how hard he tries. And some battles just aren’t worth fighting. “Sometimes things just… _are_. And, yes, we have to live with it. And maybe some memories aren’t _ideal_. But at least we don’t have to deal with them alone anymore. We don’t have to keep it in and pretend like everything’s okay when it’s not. We have people we love and who care about us that can help us through them. And we’ve got each other.”

Stan chuckles dryly. “I feel like we have this chat every time I get some new, random memory.”

“And does it help?”

He pauses, twisting his lips up and raising his brows in mock contemplation. “Maybe a little.”

“Then I rest my case,” Ford says, jokingly sweeping his hands outwards. “The past sucks, but it sucks less when you’re surrounded by people that love you.”

“Aww you _love_ me,” Stan coos, nudging his arm playfully.

“Like I said, it’s 6am. I’m allowed to be sappy.”

“Yeah yeah.” Stan says. Ford’s about to poke fun at him, but the idea is cut off when a yawn catches him off guard, his hand coming up to cover his mouth. His eyes suddenly feel about five pounds heavier. “You should really go to bed,” Stan says. “I know for a fact you didn’t sleep at all last night. You’re practically a zombie.”

“If I was a zombie, you’d know.” Ford says, readjusting on the railing.

“I mean, you’re kinda starting to stink like one,” Stan says. Ford scoffs, nudging him back. “What? I’m not wrong! Too much longer, and I’m gonna have to call Dipper for that anti-zombie recipe again—”

“Where do you think you’re going to get _formaldehyde_ all the way out here?” Ford says.

“I’ve got my ways,” Stan says cryptically, and Ford just rolls his eyes, though he honestly doesn’t doubt it.

He’s not one to lie to himself; he’s tired. But Stan needs him right now, and for that, he can survive on a little less sleep.

Stan seems to read his mind, though, his tone going somber, “Ford, I’ll be fine, I swear. Just caught me by surprise.”

Ford hums noncommittedly, tapping his fingers against the metal railing.

“We can talk more when you wake back up, ‘kay?”

Ford still doesn’t budge.

“And, I mean,” Stan says his voice taking on a devious edge again, “if you keep refusing to go, I could always go dig out your coffee and hide them from you. Or even toss them over—"

“Okay, okay. Fine. I’m going. I’m going,” Ford says, standing up from the warmed railing, his back creaking a bit when he does. “You got me. I yield.”

“Thought so,” Stan says smugly, straightening his back with pride. “Now hurry up, before I change my mind and hide the coffee anyways.”

“Pure evil,” Ford says under his breath, loud enough that he knows Stan heard. Stan laughs, but when Ford looks back at him, he still seems conflicted, his smile still a little forced, a little uncomfortable. It leaves him feeling uneasy. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I promise, Sixer,” he says. “We’ll talk later, alright?”

“Alright,” he agrees. He begrudgingly heads over to the cabin, but it only takes him a moment to notice that his are the only footsteps echoing on the deck. He turns back to Stan, who hasn’t moved from where he leans on the railing. “You staying up?”

“Oh. Uh, yeah. I’ve had enough sleep for one night.”

Ford grunts in understanding, opening the door and immediately feeling drowsy at the rush of warm air that follows from the cabin, his bed suddenly feeling more welcoming than it has all night.

_Pure manipulation on Stan’s part._

“Hey Ford.” Stan calls before he closes the door, and Ford turns to look back at him, meeting his eye across the deck.

“Hmm?”

“Thanks for listening.”

“Any time, Lee.”

“Love you too, ya nerd.”

Ford smiles, watching as Stan turns back to the sea, his posture thankfully relaxed and comfortable, before ducking his head and closing it behind him with a soft click.

* * *

Out on the deck, Stan stares out over the calm waters, his mind still swirling, but somewhat at ease now as he watches a new day begin. He can't help but smile, watching as the sun finally peeks up over the horizon, burning red rising above the familiar blue, tinting the whole world warm.

_A new day._

And for probably the millionth time…

He’s glad he doesn’t have to face it alone.

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm not entirely happy with the end of this one, but I wanted it done, so _here it is._
> 
> So I had the idea for this fic a _long_ time ago, and the [Stanuary "Dreams"](https://stanuary.tumblr.com/) prompt kinda kicked my butt into gear to finish it. Basically, I had this dream that I was Stan during Weirdmageddon, and when they were wiping his mind, instead of just losing everything at the end, he lost bits and pieces of his memories throughout the entire scene with him and Bill... And I woke up from it kinda feeling... messed up by how that felt... So this came to be because of it.
> 
> So yeah, that was the one and only GF dream I've ever had... Crazy...
> 
> _But anywho_ thanks for reading! <3
> 
> Come check me out on [Tumblr](https://pinesbrosfalls.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
